Magic Mirror
by shiirojasmine
Summary: How the Wicked Queen met the Magic Mirror.


**Magic Mirror**

I never liked the parties that my father the marquis put on. I found them dull, and the people were terribly shallow, and it was that shallowness that often made me uncomfortable. In fact, I might have actually liked the parties it they didn't entail guests. I hated coming into the room into so that the whole noble community had access to my face. The little whispers, the snickers, the and subtly veiled insults – I hated it all.

I suppose I ought to be thankful that it's a masquerade tonight.

It was thrown in honor of one of my elder sisters, Isa, who was as dark, elegant, and lovely as she was rich. And vindictive. I couldn't forget that. As were all eleven of my siblings.

Isa was dancing with one of her would-be suitors. Throughout the dance, I could see her eyes darting over the man's shoulders. I grimaced underneath the mask, knowing she was probably searching for me so she can smirk, trying to lord the fact she was beautiful and sought after over me. At least I had some sort of relief tonight. I deliberately had prepared for myself a mask that mother hadn't provided. Besides, Mother wouldn't waste her time scolding me later for not wearing one of her masks. She was always too wrapped up with playing the perfect hostess.

I snuck out of the ball room, slipping the mask off my face. I could still hear the laughter and the voices chorusing behind me, and I wondered, how many of those voices were laughing at the Marquis's hideous little girl?

I climbed up the long stretch of stairs, heading towards my chamber. I've had it ever since I was born, and it was the one place that few would ever come to bother me in. I crawled on top of the bed, staring up at the tall ceiling. A slow curling fury coiled in my stomach as I thought about my sisters, my brothers, and the sneering noblemen. I closed my eyes, wishing that I had been born pretty. I wouldn't even mind being plain. Such feelings of self-pity and wishing warred with my anger. Why couldn't I be accepted for who I was? Was it really impossible to overlook the outward appearance?

I rolled onto my stomach. "Beauty is only skin deep," I whispered to myself softly. It rang quietly, trailed softly by silence.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that one of the roses sewn onto the silk wallpaper was slightly different from the other, a subtle, darker shade of red. It glistened in the glow of the candlelight. I stood, creeping towards that crimson flower. I kneeled, scrutinizing the way the red thread took the form of a rose. On a whim, I reached out and fingered the fabric. The wood cowed under my finger. Curious, I pressed, firmer this time. It swung outward towards me. I jumped back, surprised.

I've discovered secret doorways before. I never told anybody, since there was never anybody to tell. I crept inside, my skin crawling with anticipation. I coughed a couple of times, tasting the dust in the air. I didn't care that my hands were getting blackened and cracked. What was the point of trying to keep them soft and presentable? No one wanted a girl with lovely hands if she didn't have a beautiful face to match.

I didn't know how long I was crawling for; eventually I reached a space where I could stand up. I pulled myself up, wiping my hands on my ruined skirt. In front of me was a low door. I stooped, jiggling the knob open.

It opened to reveal a dark room, lit by flickering torches. I shuddered as the shadows danced around me. I was tempted to turn back and flee, but I wanted to see what could be behind the curtains at the back of the room. I have always been a curious girl.

I parted the curtains, only to see a mirror. I cocked my head, confused. What was a mirror doing here? Then I imagined my vindictive sisters and Mother coming down here to preen. I dismissed the thought, annoyed by the possibility they'd intrude on my sanctuary.

And then I saw it. This little whirl of green, growing and swirling into the shape of long, pointed face. I leapt back in shock. A demon, I thought frantically. I wanted to run, but I suddenly found my knees weak and my legs boneless.

The demon chuckled, its lipless mouth curving into a shark-like smile. "Why run, child?" it asked softly, continuing to stare straight at me. I shuddered. "You'll just come back anyways."

"What," I tried hard not to stammer, "makes you think that?"

It ignored me, and continued. "I can make you beautiful."

I gave a short, rueful laugh. "Me, beautiful? You lie."

"Why would I lie about this?" it asked pleasantly. Its soulless eyes glimmered. "All you need to do is touch the mirror."

I shouldn't trust him, but to be beautiful was something I yearned for ever since I was small.

Hesitantly, I brushed my fingers on the surface of the mirror. If possible, the demon's smile widened. Suddenly the colors blurred, and I was staring at myself. I gaped at my face, heart-shaped, smooth, and whiter. My cheeks were a pleasant shade of soft pink. My nose was smaller, taller and primmer, and my lips were red and plump. The corners of my mouth and eyes was still recognizable, the only things keeping me from thinking perhaps I had transformed into another person.

I stared dumbly as my mouth smiled. I knew I wasn't smiling. "I hope you don't mind," the demon giggled, flashing a charming smile at me. "I have a masquerade to attend."  
And it was in the mirror that I stayed for twenty years.

The demon brought me to the castle. How odd that I would be unable to attend my own wedding, and meet my step-daughter in person. I saw the demon delirious in finding freedom in my body, and becoming more twisted with the beauty it had had bestowed upon itself.

One day when it awoke me from my frequent slumber, it raged, "Mirror, mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?"

An image of a girl with ink black hair, blood-red lips stretched into a perpetual smile, and pristine white skin flashed before me. Slowly, I somberly answered, "Snow White." I saw the fury in its eyes and willed myself to go back to sleep, hoping for the day someone would trade their soul for mine. Would it be Snow White's? I smiled as sleep drifted over me. How ironic it would be for the soul of a beautiful girl to trade places with the soul of someone as ugly as me?

The ugly aren't ever rescued, though.


End file.
